


body language

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asexual Castiel, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Relationship Issues, discussion of sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Dean's mind, the logical next step in their relationship would've involved mind-blowing sex. It turns out it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	body language

So: it takes them years and a world of pain and a half-decade of longing stares, but they do it. Castiel tells Dean how he feels in a moment of breathless abandon, thinking he might die shortly thereafter, and Dean tells him he reciprocates; and in the end they both live and they’re in love, and they both finally know—

And the logical next step there, Dean thinks, unpleasantly sweaty and his breathing rough, sheets bunched up around his legs and Cas sprawled uncomfortably to his left, should’ve been really, really great sex.

Except, the thing is. The thing is, the sex wasn’t great. It wasn’t even _good._

If anything, it was awkward and unsatisfying, and sticky in ways that Cas clearly didn’t like at all—and just, at its most basic, _bad_ , and maybe that was to be expected given that Cas isn’t even human and it’s his first time, but Dean still feels like he’s completely failed his best friend, here. Dean Winchester, self-proclaimed sex bomb, failed to introduce him to one of the best goddamn things about being human, somewhere on the same echelon of existence as pie and loud music.

He clears his throat, and says, swallowing his pride, “Uh—listen, man, I’m sorry that wasn’t . . . what I said it was gonna be. I swear, it’ll be better next time, it’s not usually . . .”

And Castiel just about gives him a heart attack when he says, “Dean, I’d rather there not be a next time.”

Dean’s up on one elbow and staring at him, horrified. “You’re leaving? Because one bad lay? Cas—”

“No,” Castiel says, and he sounds faintly amused, which seems unfair when Dean feels like his heart might hammer its way out of his chest, because _Jesus_. Cas hasn’t moved from where he slumped after they finished, undressed on his back with his left arm thrown out to the side and hanging off the edge of the bed, and his eyes are large and dark where they meet Dean’s. “No, that’s not what I meant, Dean.”

“Uh,” says Dean, and scrubs his free hand over his face, sitting up fully. He can’t believe he’s having to have this conversation. It’s kind of humiliating, even if there’s a plenty of possible good reasons that they weren’t, well, _good_. “Listen, I don’t want you to think it’s always going to be like that, if we try again I’ll . . .”

 _Try harder,_ he wants to say, which sounds wrong (like he wasn’t trying to make Cas feel good this time, which isn’t true, this wasn’t just about him—was it?) and kind of cruel besides. “I’ll try again,” Dean finishes, lamely. “I can make it good.” Except he’d said that the first time, hadn’t he. “Better.”

“Dean,” says Castiel, softly, and reaches up and runs a warm, calloused hand along Dean’s arm. It’s gentle, a reassurance. “It’s not because of you. It’s that I don’t,” and for the first time he seems to hesitate, shifting slightly against the mattress, still too-hot from their exertions, “I don’t think I want to be having sex at all.”

“What,” says Dean, and, “oh, god, it was so bad I’ve scared you off sex for _life_.” He has to take a moment to cover his face with his hand, because, okay, low point in the life of Dean Winchester. Like, a notch above ‘accidentally starting the apocalypse’, maybe.

Castiel says, patiently, “No, that’s not it.”

“What is it, then,” Dean says, and makes a space between the fingers of his hand so he can look down at Cas. Castiel is actually _smiling_ , that barely-there little smile he gets that just tugs up at the corner of his mouth and mostly comes out through the softened look in his eyes and the creases at their edges. That’s gotta be a good thing, right?

“It’s,” Castiel makes a vague gesture over himself with his left hand, half-dismissive, like he’s struggling to explain it in a way Dean will get. “I don’t think I want it. Wanted it? I wanted very much to be with you,” he hurries to say, at Dean’s alarmed look, “and I still do. I’m not sorry we tried, and I liked the closeness, but the act . . .” 

Castiel shrugs his shoulders, and looks away, suddenly circumspect after all that, like they’re not already in the middle of the most awkward conversation known to _man_. “I don’t think I’m interested. In sex. With anyone.”

Dean feels his heart sink, and immediately feels guilty about it, about this whole thing. “Oh,” he says, and, “God, Cas, I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Castiel says, and sits up so they’re almost eye level, reaches out and cups Dean’s jaw with his hands. It ought to be incongruous, after what they've just been doing, but it isn't. Castiel’s holding his gaze, blue eyes wide and doing that thing where it feels like he’s staring into Dean’s goddamn soul (and maybe he is), and he’s saying, “I wanted to see what it would be like. This isn’t your fault, and this isn’t because we tried. It’s just something about me, and it does not—it does not reflect poorly upon you. Not at all.”

Dean closes his eyes, because he can’t deal with this, can’t deal with Castiel looking into his eyes while he does the equivalent of letting him down slowly. “Christ,” he says. “I’d say it reflects pretty poorly on me, if you decided to try sex because it’s something I suggested, and I botched it this bad.”

“You were a very attentive lover,” Castiel says, and Dean is once again surprised by the warmth in his voice. Castiel’s hands move down from his jaw, over Dean’s shoulders, over the muscle of his upper arms and down to his hands. It feels somehow more intimate than when Dean was rutting against him minutes ago, and isn’t that a wake-up call. “Please, believe me? I want to be with you. I like it when you kiss me, and,” Castiel is taking Dean's hands in his own, pulling them up until Dean’s palms rest against Castiel’s collarbones and Dean’s fingers align with the crook of Castiel’s neck, and Dean draws a suddenly shaky breath, “and when you touch me, and I wanted to see if I’d like it if you went further, just as much as I wanted to do it because it might make you happy. It was an experiment in physicality, and my love for you is not contingent on whether or not sex with you was enjoyable.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and opens his eyes again. “So you . . . you don’t like sex. At all, you think, not just with me.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees.

“And,” Dean goes on, and stops. He asks, suddenly concerned, “You said you wanted this with me, but—did you _want_ for it? Was there a . . .” He hesitates, not sure if he’s explaining this correctly. Dean’s never exactly slept with someone that didn’t feel the hot pull of wanting sex with another person, who didn’t look at someone—anyone?—and have the heat of desire flash through them. 

“If you’re asking whether I was aroused,” Castiel begins, and Dean shakes his head. Cas hadn’t actually come, though he’s soft now, and Dean definitely feels like shit about that—that’s why they rolled apart, Dean pushing off Cas the minute it had become apparent that the unhappy, scrunched expression on Castiel’s face really wasn’t in line with his insistence that Dean should keep going—but Cas had _gotten_ hard, briefly, somewhere in the process, so that isn’t what he’s asking.

“Physical response doesn’t equal wanting,” Dean says, moving his right hand so that he can rub his thumb gently along the curve of Castiel’s shoulder. “I mean—when you, when you look at me, or someone good-looking in the street. Do you feel . . . do you want them, in some way? Does it make you, I don’t know, hot ‘n bothered.”

It still isn’t quite what he wants to say, and he catches Castiel giving him his patent mind-reading stare, the one that means Cas is skimming over his consciousness, trying to pick out his meaning. Dean lets him without comment, because this is one of those times when having a mind-reading partner would be really, really convenient, because Dean’s not good with words but it’s important to him that Castiel _get it_ , get what he’s asking.

“Oh,” Castiel says at last, not like he’s enlightened or anything but at least with more comprehension. “You’re asking if I’m—attracted. Sexually. If I experience . . . _want_ , as you say, without necessarily implied follow-up.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, because that sounds as right as any of this has. “Yeah.”

Castiel seems to think about it, his hands folded in his lap while Dean traces his shoulders, relishes the softness of his skin and the way Castiel seems all too happy to melt against the touch, for all that the sex hadn’t elicited any of the same pleased pliancy. “No,” Castiel says at last, “I don’t believe I do. Not the way you do.” 

“Oh,” Dean echoes. “Okay.” And, to make sure that Cas is totally clear on this: “We don’t have to have sex again. Like, at all, seriously, I was suggesting it because I thought—if you don’t want it, I’m never gonna ask you just for me, I swear.” 

It’s a little scary, the thought that they’re not exactly compatible in this regard, but Castiel says that he loves him anyway, and Dean’s more than willing to keep his right hand company for the rest of his life if it means getting to stay with Castiel, having Castiel with him. This has never been about fucking, after all.

And Castiel is smiling at him again, and it’s ridiculous how fond he seems despite the discomfort of the night. Without warning, Castiel leans forward and presses his mouth to Dean's, slow and careful and as good as it’s been throughout this whole mess. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says at length, a number of languid kisses in, “for taking the time to understand.”

“What the hell kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t,” Dean wants to know. Because Cas isn’t a one-night stand, he’s not even just another guy or girl that Dean likes the thought of spending time or even years with: Dean’s pretty sure this guy—this _not_ -guy, actually, and maybe that’s another thing he and Cas need to spend time talking about, whether addressing Castiel as that is even okay—is the love of his life, ‘til death do they part. Cas is _it_ , the end of the line.

Castiel just kisses him again, and murmurs, “You should shower.” It isn’t, Dean thinks, a rebuke.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I think I should.” He shifts away, towards the edge of the bed. While he searches for his clothes in the dark and casts a glance back over his shoulder, he asks tentatively, “You’ll still be here, right? You won’t flit away before I’m back?”

“I’ll be here,” Castiel agrees. “I’m not going anywhere, Dean.”

Dean believes him. “Okay,” he says, and smiles a little himself as he stands, because they’re working this out; they’ll be all right, they’ll figure out how they fit together as they go along, this is just a piece of that puzzle.

They’ve been through Hell and Purgatory together, he thinks as the bathroom door closes behind him. It’ll take more than sexual differences to break them.


End file.
